Solace
by Daughter of the Bomb
Summary: Erik goes to Charles when in need of comfort.  Charles/Erik oneshot.


I finally sense him once he's right outside my door.

"Erik?" His thoughts are painfully chaotic as they bang against the walls of his skull; making me angry at myself for not having noticed this obvious war inside of him. But one thought screams over the chaos, a thought, a question, that ignites in plain view and works as a flare in the darkness suffocating his mind.

_Can I come in?_ Even his voice of thought is made in nothing but a pained growl.

_Of course you can…_ Making my mind's voice as kind and thoughtful as I can, attempting to hide the beating oceans of concern that still manage to echo in my tone.

The door soon opens, but I feel his hesitance behind the gesture. The frighteningly pure fear radiating off of him is horrendous, making me scared for him. The man I barely know, yet have the same comfort around him, as if I know him better than I know myself. I've skimmed the surface of his dark depths, and he knows that; even though he once stated how uncomfortable it made him feel. But now…

He trusts me.

It's the strangest, most compelling thing…

After my initial forced entry, he's begun letting me in.

Of course, it's just the little things ("Charles, I want my room to be separate from the children. Maybe one close to yours? I think that would be better. You're much easier to put up with as compared to them." "That can be arranged, Erik. Is there any reason behind your move?" "I just… They're completely unreasonable teenagers. I never acted like that when I was their age… But then again I didn't quite act like the other teenagers when I was that age… _Things were so different back then_…").

But it's the whole action of the thing; something was bothering him, and instead of dealing with it himself, he came to me. He even briefly mentioned something I doubt he's ever talked about with anyone else.

That trust is astounding, and gives me hope for this tragic man.

But in this moment… I don't know.

The way he is right now; standing, frozen, in my doorway. He holds himself contorted; frame bent in on itself, his legs are tense and taught and even from my sight on the bed I can see them shake despite his loose fitted pajama bottoms. His shoulders are forward and prickled in defense above his white undershirt, his arms trembling under the tightened muscles, with hands circled in a fist as his nails dig into his soon bleeding palms. But his expression reveals his real feelings; eye brows pinched together in turmoil, nostrils flaring as he tries to calm his panicked breathing, mouth trying to keep away a grimacing frown, trying to keep his usual cool composure, blood stained eyes darting and ticking before settling on me, fighting back tears with everything he has left in him.

_Erik, what's wrong?_ I can't talk. Not now anyway. Not with him like this.

_You mean despite the fact that I'm __**me?**_

_Erik, don't think like that. It hurts when you think of yourself like that._

_I deserve that pain._

_But it's hurting me too._

His mouth opens to protest, but no sound comes out. He dive bombs into the state of hopelessness, looking to the ceiling as if it will help to keep the tears at bay. The only thing I can do to stop myself from running to his side is to gesture him to mine.

_Erik, come here please._

He doesn't need any more encouragement before he's standing next to my bedside; spine rigid as he looks down at me from my spot, where I'm merely sitting up in my bed, choice papers scattered over the covers. He's stock still as he tries to calm himself down, but I can see it in his face; he's just stuffing those shattered emotions into a deep dark corner where he hopes no one will ever see them again. But it doesn't mean they won't come back.

He's being pulled in two directions.

One: He does what he's always done, hide his pain and avoid anything that might cause it.

Two: He tells someone about how badly he's secretly hurting and learns how to live with it.

Does his trust stretch so far? There's got to be a reason as to why he came here. Why he came to me.

_Erik?_

I know not to push, if I do then I risk losing him. He looks up; broken grey to sunken red eyes meeting mine, his mouth is hanging open as he still tries to keep up some form of composure.

He's reached a decision.

_Charles?_

_Yes Erik?_

_Could we share?_

_Share wh-? _I almost finish my question when I realize what he means. What do else would I have to share besides my bed? I give him a polite smile before I start grabbing papers and collect them in a rude pile as I drag myself over to make room for him.

_That's good. Thank you Charles. _

_It's no problem, Erik. _

_Thank you Charles_.

_Thank __you_.

_Thank__**you**_.

_**Thank **_**you**.

His mind echoes many words of gratitude and appreciation, each more pained than the last as his mind constricts to try and keep a miserable memory away so I won't see it. He turns his back towards me, and I can't see the agonized look on his beautiful face. With his powers, the knob on the lamps flick and turn off.

"Good night." My voice is small between the large crevice cracked in the midst of the bed, keeping me away, scared to move any closer to him. I know that my fear is irrational; I want to comfort him in any way that I possibly can, but I find that I can't even spark up enough courage to do so.

_Good night._

I can't stand seeing him like this. It's killing me.

Shoving sleep aside, I decide to wait for Erik to fall asleep first. Just in case he did decide to talk about whatever is causing him such anguish, I'd hate to be asleep and not be there for him. From studying Erik while we play chess, I know that when he does decide to make a drastic move it's in the heat of the moment, before doubt takes hold of him.

I'm staring at ceiling tiles when I hear him strangling his sobs.

And it gives me courage enough.

I don't use words. I don't use thoughts.

Next thing I know I'm cuddled against his back, one arm slung over him in an embracive hug.

"You don't have to hide."


End file.
